The rain came hard that night. Sheets of water pelted the rooftops of the small, remote village, rushing down in silver streams that carved paths through the muddy ground. The wind howled through the narrow dirt paths like a restless spirit, bending the thin bamboo fences and rattling the leaves of the coconut trees. Somewhere in the dark, the swollen river hissed and churned against its banks, threatening to spill over.
Above the steady drum of rain, another sound echoed — raw, human, and filled with pain. Giselle's voice broke through the storm, her cries carrying through the damp air. Inside the small house, the dim light of an oil lamp flickered against the woven bamboo walls, casting shadows that swayed like restless ghosts.
Not far from the village center, at the highest rise of land, stood a small shrine. It was little more than a square hut of old timber and a roof weighed down by moss, but it was the holiest place to those who believed. The villagers whispered that the god here could bless a family or curse it, that it could choose the fate of a child before its first breath.
Inside the shrine, Mildred knelt on the wet earth. Her skirt was heavy with rain, clinging to her thin legs, but she did not move. Her dark hair, streaked with silver, was plastered against her face, yet her back remained rigid. Before her sat a stone figure no taller than her knee, its surface worn smooth and faceless by decades of hands that had touched it in hope and desperation. She bowed until her forehead pressed against the base, her lips moving in a fevered prayer that the wind could not drown out.
"Bless this birth," she murmured again and again, her voice low and insistent. "Bless her again this time. Give us a son."
Rainwater pooled around her knees, seeping into her bones, but she did pnot care. The shrine had heard her prayers before. Tonight, it would hear them until the god itself could not ignore her.
Down in the village, inside the house, Alina stood at the doorway of her mother's room. She was eight years old, her frame small enough to blend into the wooden frame of the door. Barefoot, with the ends of her faded dress brushing her ankles, she pressed her fingers into the grooves of the bamboo slats and leaned forward to see.
Inside, the air was thick with the smell of sweat and burning herbs. Her father, Malcolm, knelt beside the bed, holding Giselle's hand in both of his. His voice was soft, too soft for Alina to hear, but she could see the way his lips moved, the way his eyes stayed fixed on her mother's face.
The midwife, a broad woman with sure hands and a voice that cut through the storm, moved with practiced precision at the foot of the bed. Every now and then, she gave instructions that Giselle obeyed through clenched teeth. Her mother's hair was damp with sweat, strands sticking to her face, her lips pale and trembling.
Alina stayed silent. She had learned long ago that moments like these were not for her. She was not part of the circle of warmth and welcome that came with a birth. Still, she could not look away.
Another cry tore from Giselle's throat. The wind rattled the window, the bamboo walls creaked, and the rain hammered the roof without pause. Then, through it all, came a sound that stilled the air in the room — the sharp, high wail of a newborn child.
The midwife's face broke into a smile as she lifted the tiny, wet bundle. "It is a boy," she said, her voice brimming with satisfaction.
Malcolm let out a breath, his shoulders easing as relief settled over him. His hand went to the child's head, fingers brushing over the damp strands. His smile was warm, unguarded.
Footsteps approached the house, quick and heavy over the wet ground. The door creaked open and Mildred entered, the storm still clinging to her like a second skin. Her skirt was soaked, her bun loosened, and water dripped from her chin. She paused in the doorway, her eyes sweeping over the room — and then landing on Alina.
For a heartbeat, she said nothing. Her gaze was cold, hard, the kind of look that did not need words to carry its meaning. Rainwater slid from the tip of her nose to the floor as she turned away and moved to the bed, her hands already reaching for the newborn.
Alina's eyes dropped to the floor. She stayed still, pressed into the doorway as the voices in the room turned soft with awe and pride. The baby's cries were met with murmurs of comfort, with gentle laughter.
Alina stepped back into the hall, the sound of celebration fading behind her. The floor was cool beneath her feet, the smell of wet earth drifting in through the open window at the end of the hall. She went to it, leaning her small hands on the sill. Outside, the rain had slowed, but the clouds hung low and dark over the village. Water dripped from the leaves of the banana trees, the sound slow and steady.
Somewhere far away, thunder rolled. Inside, the voices grew louder again, but they were voices for someone else. The truth settled heavy in her chest, as familiar as the storm.
She was not the prayer answered tonight. She never had been.
Alina stayed at the window, tracing the rim of water pooling on the sill with her fingertip. The rain softened to a drizzle, but the air felt heavy, charged, as if the storm had left something behind.
Her eyes drifted to a lone lantern swinging from the post outside. The wind had died, yet the flame inside flickered and bent as if pushed by an unseen breath.
Somewhere deep in her chest, a strange tightness coiled. It was not anger, though her heart beat faster. It was not sadness, though her eyes stung. It was… something else. A pull, quiet but certain, like a thread drawing her toward the light outside.
She did not move her hand, yet the lantern swayed harder, the flame inside flaring bright, then shrinking to almost nothing.
Alina blinked, and the tightness unraveled. The flame steadied. The lantern stilled. Behind her, laughter swelled in the room she had left. The sound was distant, muffled by the pounding in her ears.
She turned away from the window and walked to the far end of the hallway, each step slow, deliberate. The shadows seemed to bend toward her as she passed, reaching for her in silence.
They had their blessing now.
They would never know what they had left in the dark.